


A Boy With No Name and No Memories

by Sokkas_First_Fangirl



Series: Once Upon A December (Anastasia AU) [3]
Category: Animaniacs
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orphanage, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amnesia, Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Anastasia (1997 & Broadway), Post-Invasion, Post-War, Prequel, no beta we die like fools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29267310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sokkas_First_Fangirl/pseuds/Sokkas_First_Fangirl
Summary: He woke up on the train tracks, in the early hours of the morning. He had no idea how he had gotten there; he had no idea where he was. Indeed, he had no idea who he was, and a distant part of his mind thought the idea should have frightened him more than it did.He was lying in the snow and dawn was breaking.*An exploration of Yakko's first week after the invasion, nameless and with no memories.(Or, how Yakko became Elo)
Relationships: Yakko Warner & Original Character(s)
Series: Once Upon A December (Anastasia AU) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095389
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	A Boy With No Name and No Memories

**Author's Note:**

> I've been coming back and forth to this idea for about a week now, but I was planning on posting it when "One Hope (Then Another)" was finished.  
> However, @yes-asil on tumblr posted some absolutely beautiful fanart of Yakko with the lyrics for "In My Dreams" and that rather gave me the kick to finish the last part and post it now instead 😅
> 
> Check out their art, it's amazing! https://yes-asil.tumblr.com/

_“They said I was found by the side of a road. There were tracks all around; it had recently snowed. In the darkness and cold, the wind in the trees; a girl with no name, and no memories, but these…”_ \- Anastasia: Broadway

  
  
  


He woke up on the train tracks, in the early hours of the morning. He had no idea how he had gotten there; he had no idea where he was. Indeed, he had no idea _who_ he was, and a distant part of his mind thought the idea should have frightened him more than it did.

He was lying in the snow and dawn was breaking.

The town around him looked like a warzone. Bodies lay on the ground; buildings still smoldered, there was the thick smell of smoke in the air, making his nose twitch and his chest tighten. Much of the snow was stained red. Humans in red and gold uniforms marched to and fro, holding guns and swords, apparently not noticing the destruction around them. Or, if they did, they didn’t seem to care. He saw a tiny handful of frightened people, humans and toons, sticking to the shadows and side-streets, rushing about and keeping their heads down, hurrying even more if a soldier glanced their way.

No one gave him a second glance.

Shivering, he stood up, dusting himself down, snow clinging to his fur. A small cloth bag lay at his feet and he picked it up, tugging it open; it was full of clothing, meant for a child. Most of it was made from dark materials, black, brown and different shades of blue, made from warm thick material. A glance down at himself showed him he was dressed in pyjamas, with a heavy brown coat thrown on top.

He closed the bag, slinging it over his skinny shoulder and looked around again. He half-hoped that someone would come running over and tell him where he was, or tell him what his name was. The more he thought about it, the more he tried to bring a name to mind, the more his head hurt.

Speaking of, his head _really_ hurt. There was a big bump on the back of his head, mostly hidden by his fur; he winced when he touched it. His head throbbed and his stomach lurched.

Trying to distract himself, he fiddled with the necklace he was wearing; a jewel-studded star pendant on a thin, glittering gold chain. It was beautiful, and when he twisted the chain around, he saw the pendant was engraved on the back: _Together In Burbank._

That made him pause, biting his lip. Burbank. Where was Burbank? Was _this_ place Burbank? This ruined, smoldering town?

He gave the soldiers another wary glance and darted into the nearest alleyway, sticking to the shadows like everyone else. He ducked behind a pile of crates and tried to stay as quiet as he could, clutching his pendant. He didn’t know why, but he had the distinct impression that he needed to stay hidden from those men.

His head hurt, he was cold all over and hungry. He didn’t know where he was, or what his name was. All these facts jumped through his head, faster and faster, until they were impossible to ignore.

He was alone, he was frightened and he didn’t even know who to call for. Did he even have anyone who would help?

_This,_ the child thought to himself, _Is really bad._

It was bad, and he didn’t have any idea about how to make it right.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The hours passed. Slowly, the town began to come to life, at least somewhat. More people appeared, slowly creeping out of their homes. Soldiers began to clear away the bodies and streets; the red snow had buckets of steaming water thrown on it, melting it away.

He observed all this from his alley. It was right next to the train station, but as the sun rose into the sky no trains arrived. The doors hung open, but it didn’t look like anyone was inside. There was no one in the ticket booths.

No shops opened. People crept around, whispering together; they cried out in relief to see someone they knew, or they collapsed to their knees, sobbing at bad news.

“The King and Queen?” he heard an old woman whisper. Her companion, another old woman in a shawl, shook her head.

“Dead,” she whispered back, giving the soldiers a fearful glance. They both had tears in their eyes.

“The princes and princess?”

“I’ve not heard anything yet, but I doubt it’ll be anything good.”

He didn’t know why he was crying.

The women moved along quickly when a soldier looked their way. The boy stayed hidden behind the crates, trying to think past the waves of nausea and dizziness that kept hitting him. 

If he was in this town, that meant he was from here, right? He lived here? It stood to reason that someone was looking for him. They wouldn’t find him if he stayed crouching here in the shadows. Besides, he needed to find something to eat.

He walked out of the alley and into the eerily quiet streets, wiping at his eyes. 

He needed to come up with a plan.

  
  
  


_“Traveling the backroads, sleeping in the wood; taking what I needed, working when I could. Keeping up my courage, foolish as it seems.”_ \- Anastasia: Broadway

  
  
  


He came upon a vendor’s cart, upended on the footpath, spilling its contents across the ground and in the gutter. He looked around and quickly grabbed what looked cleanest; cookies and pretzels, three small bags of sugared almonds and even a bag of marshmallows. What looked like hot chocolate was spilled across the ground.

He shoved most of the food into his bag, on top of the clothes and kept two cookies out, eating them as he walked along. He didn’t know where he was going. Honestly, he didn’t have much of a plan at all, beyond walk around and hope that...Well, that stuff would start to make sense.

Maybe if he walked around, he’d see something familiar. Or, better yet, maybe he’d see _someone_ familiar and they’d know him too, and tell him what was going on.

This would be a lot easier if he could remember where he was, or who he was. If he knew where he was, he could just walk home- because he had a home, surely? Everyone else seemed to be coming from their homes, or darting back inside. 

He knew he should probably just stop someone and _ask,_ but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d better keep his head down. Creepy soldiers aside, he wasn’t so sure anyone else could really help.

He spent most of the afternoon wandering around, keeping an ear out for the whispers; the King and Queen were dead (and the thought made his chest tighten, made tears sting his eyes); no one knew where their children were yet, but some people said they saw them running off with “the Duke,” whoever that was. 

And someone named King Salazar of Ticktockia had declared he was King of _here_ now as well. He had invaded last night. It explained the destruction and terror in the air. 

One man, a little too loudly, accused Salazar of using dark magic. The soldiers immediately hauled the man away. He went kicking and screaming, cursing Salazar’s name and shouting about justice for “the Warners.”

After that, the child hurried back to the alley.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The next day, some shops opened. The child still had plenty of treats in his bag, but he figured he should probably try and find something a bit more filling. Only problem was, he didn’t have any money. And he knew he needed money to buy stuff.

He tried to puzzle it out as he got dressed. He changed from the pyjamas and heavy coat into a thick blue jumper and brown slacks; he exchanged the coat for a cloak, a thick grey one; it clasped at his throat and chest. He pulled the hood up, keeping it as low on his face as he could. He couldn’t pin-point why, but it made him feel a little better. The soldiers would have a harder time looking at his face.

He had one of the bags of almonds for breakfast and walked into the streets. His head still ached on and off, but he was determined to get some real answers now. Trepidation aside, he wouldn’t get anywhere if he stuck to the shadows and hid. He needed to figure out where he was and where his family was.

He had to have a family. He had to have a name. Everyone else did, he heard them calling each other; Rita, Runt, Buttons and Mindy, Squit, Bobby and Pesto. So that meant he had to have a name too.

He just needed to remember what it was. He wasn’t sure how to go about it; honestly, he was hoping the problem would sort itself out when his head stopped hurting.

But for now, he still intended to ask around.

Most of the shops were still firmly shut, but the few that were opened had huge lines in front of them, especially the butchers and bakers. There were only three vendors setting up their stalls, selling mugs of tea, hot chocolate and coffee. 

He wasn’t sure how to go about getting money either. 

The soldiers marched about, giving everyone suspicious looks. Some men in similar uniforms were clearing away debris, or overturned carts and carriages. The air didn’t smell like smoke anymore, but everything was still _wrong._

He wondered who this Salazar was, and what he was up to.

  
  
  
  
  
  


His plan was to wait for the lines to die down a little before trying to get any proper food. In the meantime, he needed money.

He was only halfway down the street when he spotted the battered palace on the hill and a wave of dizziness hit.

He careened into the wall, gasping for breath and trying to orientate himself. Slowly, he crouched down, groaning. Black spots danced across his vision and his head suddenly hurt as badly as it had the day before.

He’d been kneeling there for a few minutes when a woman said, “Oh poor little pet,” and set three little bronze coins down in front of him. 

“Get yourself some food, dearie,” she said, giving him a kindly smile. Before he could think of anything to say, she was gone, lost in the crowd.

His head was still spinning, but not as badly as before. He picked up the coins and, on shaking limbs, forced himself to stand. He clutched his pendant, giving the palace another glance; he shuddered, his stomach twisting unpleasantly and turned away.

He bought a small, tin mug of coffee from a vendor. It was black coffee, no milk or sugar; terribly bitter, but he gulped it down eagerly all the same. It warmed him to the tips of his toes and made him feel more awake.

Feeling better, he joined the line at the bakers. He still had two coins left, maybe he could at least get a bun or some bread with them. The line was still long and he fidgeted as he stood there waiting. He bounced on his toes, played with his hands and fiddled with his pendant. He read the engraving again and again; _Together In Burbank, Together In Burbank, Together In Burbank…_

He still didn’t know the name of this place.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the line moved.

The place was practically cleared out by the time he got inside. Most of the shelves were bare, and the baker seemed to be arguing with a man over the price of the six loaves the man was trying to buy.

“No discounts!” the baker said. “I’ve got a family to feed too, you know!”

Disgruntled, the man slammed his coins onto the counter. The baker counted them and nodded for the man to leave.

The baker was a massive man; a toon well over six-feet tall, as broad as he was tall with bulky arms and a floppy white hat. He looked no-nonsense, the boy thought, but his attention was mostly taken by the loaves of bread and buns. He looked at the prices and smiled in relief; okay, so he couldn’t afford a whole loaf, but he could get one of those big currant buns.

As he made his order and handed the coins over, he decided to speak up.

“Is this Burbank?” he asked.

The baker looked at him like he was crazy. He handed over the big currant bun, wrapped in a little brown bag. “This is Acme Falls, lad,” he said. His eyebrows knit together suspiciously. “Hold on, where’re your parents, eh?”

“Gotta go!” the child said and ran out of the shop and back into the snowy streets.

He only made it three steps when trumpets began to blare. He stopped and watched as a big black carriage made its way through the streets, escorted by soldiers on horseback. The clock insignia on the carriage seemed freshly painted.

He had a bad feeling about this.

  
  
  
  
_“And I hear a voice whisper, I'll meet you right there...’”_ \- Anastasia: Broadway

  
  
  


He was right to be wary. 

A small man in a green and purple cloak climbed down from the carriage; he was small and round with no neck. He wasn’t smiling and he kept wringing his hands, holding a scroll so tightly that the child was surprised the paper didn’t tear.

“It’s Baron Plotz…”

“What’s he doing here?”

“He’s not dead?”

“That’s _Salazar’s_ insignia!”

One soldier set down a big wooden block, almost like a short stage, but it was big enough for the frowning man (Baron Plotz?) with the scroll. He climbed up and the staring crowd fell completely and utterly silent. The only noise was the wind.

The man unfurled the scroll and cleared his throat.

“Praise be to our glorious and mighty king, King Salazar-”

Baron Plotz was immediately drowned out by the jeers, boos and shouts from the crowd.

“Traitor!”

_“Coward!”_

“Liar!”

_“TRAITOR!”_ they shouted again and again, so loudly the boy’s ears rang. _“TRAITOR, TRAITOR, TRAITOR!”_

The shouting stopped when the soldiers shot their guns into the air, a warning to listen- and to behave.

Baron Plotz was sweating now. He coughed and started again.

“Praise be to our glorious and mighty king, King Salazar of Ticktockia and Warnerstock.” (The boy’s frown deepened. Was this Warnerstock? Was Acme Falls part of Warnerstock?) “Our King promises to rule us justly and fairly. He has deposed the cowardly Warner family and promises a new reign of prosperity and strength. Anyone caught displaying loyalty to the deposed Warners will face imprisonment. Or…” He swallowed and looked around at the crowd, changing his expression into something stern; into something _mean_ and cruel. “Or death,” he finished.

Gasps and cries rang out. No one shouted again, not with the soldiers pointing their guns at everyone, but it was obvious to him that no one was happy with this.

He looked at Baron Plotz and wanted to run over there and push him off that stupid box. He was _angry._ These people were right: Plotz was a coward. Plotz was a traitor.

Plotz began to rattle off about new taxes, a bunch of decrees that he didn’t understand in the least, but the adults around him started to cry out again about how unfair it was. The few children around looked as lost as he felt.

Finally, Plotz rolled his scroll back up and stepped off the box. The soldiers escorted him back to his carriage.

People started to shout again, cursing Plotz’s name. The Baron stared straight ahead as if he didn’t hear them at all.

One soldier gave another warning shot.

The boy pulled his hood down further and ran for his alley. He shoved the bun into his bag as he ran.

He’d lost his appetite. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


That night, he dreamed of fire. He curled up under his cloak, using his bag as a pillow, hidden by the crates. He dreamed of fire and screams, he dreamed that he was running in the dark. He glanced over his shoulder as he ran, heart pounding; shadows were chasing him, closing in on him. He was running down a pitch-black hallway, staggering over invisible obstacles. He faced forward again and saw a light at the end of the hall. He reached out for the light as he ran and he thought he heard voices calling for him to hurry, hurry, _hurry…_

He woke up in the middle of the night, gasping. His heart was pounding so fast it felt like it was going to jump right out of his chest.

It was too dark for him to read the engraving on his pendant, but he held it tightly and quietly recited it to himself until his heart slowed down. “Together in Burbank,” he whispered into the dark, looking at the stars. “Together in Burbank.”

He thought of the facts he had gathered so far: he was in Acme Falls. He was in Warnerstock. They had just been invaded by a man named Salazar. The King and Queen, these mysterious Warners, were dead. People said the King and Queen’s children had escaped, but no one seemed totally sure yet. He didn’t know his name, or who his family were. Lots of people (far too many) had been killed by King Salazar’s soldiers, and now those same soldiers patrolled the streets, taking anyone they suspected of “disloyalty.” People said King Salazar had used dark magic to aid his invasion.

He was not safe here.

He was in Acme Falls, but his pendant said _Burbank._

So he had to get to Burbank.

He closed his eyes and wondered how far away Burbank was. The trains still weren’t running, he’d been keeping watch and the train station was firmly locked up now. 

There had to be other ways to get there. Maybe he was going about this all wrong; maybe his family wasn’t here.

Maybe they were in Burbank.

  
  
  
  
  
  


It was late in the afternoon the next day when the mood started to shift. The whispers changed. They weren’t all about death and despair anymore. No, it seemed the people had finally had some good news.

News that clearly had the soldiers on edge.

The boy sat against a wall near the train station, looking as woebegone as possible, like he’d seen some other people do. It seemed to work, because a few people tossed him coins. It was, he’d found, the best way to get any money. Or, rather, it seemed to be the _only_ way to get money and he had a feeling he’d need plenty if he was going to go to Burbank. The butcher told him he was too little to work.

That was when he heard these new rumours. 

“Did you hear?” A young man ran up and grabbed his friend by the arm. “Michael, have you heard?”

“No.” His friend looked bemused. A few people paused, watching and listening curiously. Luckily, there were no soldiers nearby, but the boy had the sudden feeling that they wouldn’t care if there were; there was a new, buzzing energy in the air.

“Prince Wakko and Princess Dot are alive!” the young man said, grinning. Gasps rang out and the young man turned to the people watching and shouted, _“Prince Wakko and Princess Dot are alive!”_

People started to clap and cheer, to throw their hats in the air. There was laughter; for the first time since he’d woken up on the train tracks, he heard other people laughing. Some of them were crying, but they were still smiling.

“And Prince Yakko?” another man asked eagerly.

“That’s the thing,” the first young man said. “Duke Scratchansniff has officially offered a reward of ten million gold pieces for Prince Yakko’s safe return.” He shrugged, still smiling helplessly. “And we all know Salazar doesn’t have him.”

“So then-” A woman gripped her shawl, eyes wide. “So then he may be alive too!”

“The Duke certainly seems to think so. As soon as they arrived in Burbank this morning he made the announcement. It’s in all the papers- the soldiers are rushing around trying to get any copy they can to destroy it.”

“They shouldn’t have posted that,” an older man said, shaking his head. “They’ll be out of a job at best, arrested at worst.”

“It’ll be worth it,” the young man said, eyes bright. “Everyone needs to know.”

A girl with a long red plait raised her mug of steaming tea and said, “Long live the Warners.”

Others took up the cry.

“Long live the princes and princess!”

“Long live Prince Wakko!”

“Long live Princess Dot!”

“Long live Prince Yakko!”

A teenage boy laughed and said, “Long live _King_ Yakko.” The cheers got louder and they started to clap again.

He watched them all curiously, gripping his knees, his ears twitching beneath the hood of his cloak. 

As soon as a pair of soldiers turned the corner, the people fell quiet and dispersed, but they were all still smiling with a new hope in their eyes and a spring in their step. 

If you asked him (not that anyone would) it sounded like a fairytale. The evil king, failing to kill the rightful heirs. A missing prince, who could be anywhere, safely hidden away by anyone. Separated royals, looking for each other.

He ducked his head as the soldiers came closer and they passed without giving him a second glance. All the same, he gathered up his coins and headed for the nearest cafe, in search of a proper lunch. 

He smiled as he heard more and more excited whispers. Maybe it was silly, but he felt like he was watching hope in action, seeing what even a little bit of hope could do, how quickly it could revive people.

His pendant lightly bounced against his chest as he walked and his smile widened. Burbank, huh? Maybe the place was magic. Maybe it was where all lost people went.

  
  
  


_“You don't know what it's like not to know who you are, to have lived in the shadows and travelled this far.”_ \- Anastasia: Broadway

  
  
  


The next few days were roughly the same: wake up, get dressed, find breakfast. Wander around or find somewhere to sit and hope people would give him money. Ask around and be told he was too young to work and he should really go home, he shouldn’t be out without his parents. Darting away whenever a soldier got close, because he could never push away the feeling that those men were going to hurt him (or worse), and then go back to the alley to sleep. 

His head still hurt on and off, a dull throbbing that never really seemed to stop properly. Sometimes he still got dizzy and then he had to sit down and wait for it to stop. Other times it would pass in seconds and he’d be right back to normal.

He looked intently at each and every person he passed, hoping a familiar face would suddenly reveal itself. He heard rumours of planned rebellions and didn’t pay much attention- it wasn’t rebellions he was interested in, though he had to admit it sounded pretty cool, like something from a story. 

No, he was interested in going home; he wanted to go to Burbank and find his family.

Failing that, it would be very nice if someone could come running out of the crowd and tell him who he was. He daydreamed that someone would call his name (not that he’d know it, but he hoped he would if they said it) and take him home where he’d be safe and warm, and he wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground or beg for pennies.

He wanted a home. He wanted a family. He wanted a name.

  
  
  
  
  
  


It was the seventh day when another “dizzy-wave” as he’d taken to calling them hit- and it hit _hard._ He immediately collapsed to his knees, groaning, gripping his head and shivering. He felt like he was about to be sick and he had to close his eyes.

Then a warm, quiet voice said, “Oh dear, oh dear, poor fella- you alright, little one?”

_Little one._ The nickname made his ears stand up straight and his eyes snapped open. He winced at the sunlight and, as his vision adjusted, he found an old man kneeling in front of him, watching him with concern. The old man pat him on the shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile.

It was easily the kindest way anyone had looked at him all week and it brought him dangerously close to tears.

“You shouldn’t be out by yourself,” the old man said. He wasn’t very tall or broad and he had a shaggy white beard. “Where’s your parents, eh?”

When the baker had asked, he’d run. Now he mumbled, “Dunno.”

The old man’s smile faded. “Ah,” he sighed. “The invasion.” He stood up, knees cracking and helped the child stand. The old man looked him up and down, his concern becoming more obvious by the second. “What’s your name, little one?”

The nickname made his ears twitch again. He thought he could almost remember someone else calling him that.

Almost.

Maybe he was hearing things. Maybe it was because of his throbbing head.

“I…” He shrugged helplessly, cluelessly. How was he supposed to answer that? Should he just make up a name?

The old man’s smile faded entirely.

The boy blurted out, “I dunno.”

The old man tugged on his beard, looking terribly worried. “Oh dear,” he sighed again. “Come along, little one. I think we’d better get you to a doctor.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


The doctor’s office was jam-packed. Babies cried, kids sniffled and coughed and adults fidgeted impatiently and nervously. The secretary looked frazzled and overworked.

He supposed it made sense. They’d been invaded a week ago. A lot of people were gonna be sick or hurt.

The old man muttered to the secretary; she gave them a weary glance, a flash of surprise in her eyes. She nodded and darted into the doctor’s office; she came back a moment later and gestured for them to wait.

There was nowhere to sit, so they stood against the wall.

“Am I in trouble?” he asked. “I didn’t do anything wrong, promise.”

“You’re not in trouble, little fella,” the old man said, smiling at him. “But it seems you’ve had a nasty bump to the head that needs checking over.” He paused. “You really don’t remember your name?”

The child shook his head.

The old man sighed heavily. “Well, we’ll see if that can be helped too.”

He didn’t sound very confident.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The doctor looked exhausted, assisted by a boy either in his late teens or early twenties. They looked so alike that they had to be related. Father and son, the child guessed.

The doctor checked him over. He examined the bump on his head, which had drastically diminished in the last few days, though he still winced when the doctor pressed on it, though he did so gently. 

Then the doctor checked his temperature and weight. He asked questions that he didn’t know the answers to; “Where are your parents? Do you have any family? Where do you live? What’s your name? How old are you?”

At that last one, the boy frowned, fidgeting in his seat. “Nine,” he said decisively and wondered how he knew that.

“You’re sure?” the doctor asked.

The child shrugged. “Guess so,” he said.

They didn’t press him on it.

“What do you think?” the old man asked.

“Well, amnesia definitely,” the doctor said. “I’d imagine there’s some trauma as well- who knows what he saw that night? But other than that...Well, he’s tiny. Underweight, but not drastically so. He’s done well for a week on the streets.” He gave the child a pitying glance and he bristled, deciding that he didn’t like how the doctor talked like he wasn’t there and listening.

“It’ll have to be the orphanage,” the doctor said. “There’s nowhere else to send him. Gregory here can escort him.”

“Hm…” The old man seemed to consider this. “I’ll come along if that’s alright. To see he gets there safely.”

“I won’t drop him,” the doctor’s son, Gregory, said with a smile. He grinned at the child, who smiled back at him.

“Still,” the old man said. 

And that was that.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The ride to the orphanage was a long one. He sat in between Gregory and the old man, in the back of a cart. They drove out of Acme Falls, and past Baron Plotz’s estate, a few miles into the woods.

The orphanage itself was a three-storey building. Snow was piled high against the walls, shovelled by a gardener. 

The gardener looked up at the sound of the horse’s hooves and rushed over to open the gate. Gregory and the old man climbed down. Gregory held his arms out and the boy jumped down, laughing; Gregory caught him with ease.

“I’ll wait here,” the cart driver said and the gardener ushered them through the gate. It closed behind them with a clang and the boy glanced back.

He didn’t like the gate being closed.

The old man squeezed his shoulder and the boy faced forward again, taking in the details of the orphanage; the double front doors, the stone steps and the door-knocker shaped like a clenched fist.

Gregory knocked loudly, three times, and a matron opened the door. She didn’t look surprised to see them. He wondered how many kids had been delivered here in the last week.

“Come on in,” she said.

  
  
  
  
  
  


They were brought to the head-matron’s office. It was a pretty room and very warm thanks to the lit fireplace. Just like the other matron she didn’t look surprised by their arrival, though she didn’t look happy either.

“And the boy’s name?” she asked.

“Unknown,” Gregory said. “I’m afraid he doesn’t remember anything.”

“I can _talk,_ ” he complained. Gregory smiled in amusement.

“Take it from here, scamp,” he said.

The child looked at the matron, clutching his pendant.

“I don’t know my name,” he said, nose in the air. “And I don’t know who my parents are, or how I ended up on the train tracks, but I need to go to Burbank.”

_“Burbank?”_ the matron repeated.

He nodded.

“Good luck with that,” she scoffed. “None of us are leaving Warnerstock any time soon.” She looked at Gregory and the old man. “You can go. He’ll be safe with us.”

The old man still looked worried, but he smiled at the boy and gave him one last pat on the shoulder.

“Good luck, little one,” he said. Gregory ruffled his fur. One last smile from them, one last wave and they were gone.

And he was alone with a frowning matron.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

He shrugged. “Clothes,” he said. “Oh, and some cookies.”

She sighed, pinching her nose. “Let’s just get you sorted out.”

_‘Sorted out’_ meant assigning him a bed in the dormitory. He was right by the door; the dormitory was a long thin room, lined with iron-framed beds. The curtains were open and he could see it was starting to snow again. It was a clean room, but kind of bare. There were a few toys scattered on some of the beds- teddies and a bright red rubber ball. He set his bag down on his new bed and frowned at the lack of children. It was an orphanage. Where _was_ everyone?

“Where’s everyone else?” he asked.

“Downstairs,” the head matron said. She frowned at him like he was a major inconvenience, which he thought was pretty unfair; he’d only just gotten here, he hadn’t done anything yet.

_Yet._ If she kept frowning at him like that, he just might do something.

  
  
  
  
  
  


She showed him around, in an almost absentminded way. He had the feeling she was thinking about other things.

She showed him the bathrooms and dining room; the living room was full of other kids, though she didn’t let him stop to say hello. She tugged him down the hall, towards the classrooms.

A teacher was in the second room, writing a bunch of math problems on the blackboard with a stub of white chalk.

“Marge,” the head matron said briskly. “We’ve another new arrival.”

Marge nodded at him, peering at him curiously through the thick lenses of her glasses.

“He’s no name,” the head matron said. She looked at him, frowning, like it was all his fault. “Any ideas?”

Marge set the chalk down and looked at him again. She barely blinked. It was kind of freaky.

After a long moment she said, “Elo.”

“Huh?” he asked, but Marge looked at the matron.

“Call him Elo,” she said and turned back to the blackboard. She finished one last sum and stepped back.

“That’ll be enough to keep them occupied for an hour or so,” she said. She sighed and added, “I need more chalk.”

“And I keep telling you, we’ve no funds coming in,” the head matron snapped. “The King’s men say they’re working on it. They’ll have an answer for us by the end of the month.”

“The old budget was just fine,” Marge grumbled.

The boy ignored them. He held his pendant and thought of the suggested name- well, if you could call it a suggestion. It seemed to have been decided.

Elo.

He kind of liked it. He doubted that had factored into it, Marge hadn’t even asked him. But still, it was a name and it was _his_ now.

_Elo,_ he thought to himself, trying to get used to it. _My name’s Elo. Hi, I’m Elo. You wanna know my name? It’s Elo!_

Elo tapped the star pendant and smiled to himself. It may not have been his real name, but it was good. It was his.

The head matron and Marge continued to argue about budgets. He was pretty sure they’d forgotten he was there. They were starting to raise their voices, but he barely heard them: his attention was hooked on the globe on the windowsill.

He didn’t even need to edge towards it or sneak; he marched right over and pulled it down, holding it in both hands and turning it around and around until he found what he was looking for.

_Aha!_ Elo thought, his smile widening. There it was.

_Burbank._

He didn’t think it looked too far from Warnerstock at all. 

_Together in Burbank._

He put the globe back on the windowsill, looked at the two arguing adults and walked out of the classroom, back down the hall, towards the living room and the sounds of other children.

_Together in Burbank._

Elo smiled as he walked along, head held high. One way or another, he would find a way to Burbank. Arms would open wide and then he’d be safe and _wanted,_ safe and sound, at home where he belonged. He’d remember who he was and where he came from.

_Together in Burbank._

It would take a while, he was sure, but how hard could it really be? He’d do whatever it took.

He marched into the living room. Most of the kids kept playing and talking, but a few noticed him.

“Hey,” a toon-boy said. He was a cat with silver fur and long whiskers. “You new?”

His smile stretched into a bright grin.

“I’m Elo.”

  
  
  
_“In my dreams it's all real and my heart has so much to reveal. And my dreams seem to say, ‘Don't be afraid to go on. Don't give up hope, come what may.’ I know it all will come back one day!”_ \- Anastasia: Broadway

**Author's Note:**

> And thus, Elo was born
> 
> For this one, I went with my "usual" style of having song lyrics scattered throughout the story, before each big scene-change (Have to admit, I missed it!)  
> Poor Yakko deserves all the hugs in the world, though he didn't exactly get them here
> 
> If anyone wants to yell at me about Animaniacs, I'm on tumblr! @i-lay-my-life-before-queen
> 
> Anyway, I hope this mini-prequel was interesting! Thanks for reading 💕


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